


A Spider’s Throne

by fake_years



Category: Fantastic Beasts and Where to Find Them (Movies)
Genre: Alternate Universe - Historical, Bearded Percival, Body Horror, Celtic Mythology & Folklore, Dark Magic, Fae & Fairies, Halloween, M/M, Samhain, Superstition, hot action in a medieval hut
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2017-10-26
Updated: 2017-10-26
Packaged: 2019-01-23 18:05:00
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 6,666
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/12513156
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/fake_years/pseuds/fake_years
Summary: Prompt: "Credence Barebone is a cursed man. He only has a human form during Samhain, when the season shifts into dark times, and spends the rest of his days as a horrible monster made of darkness and smoke. But this year, while he has a man’s body, Credence meets someone."





	A Spider’s Throne

At dawn, four fingers crawled from the earth, white as wisps of bog cotton. The outstretched hand’s movements toppled a beetle crawling over its back. Then a second surfaced. Eventually the body once belonging to Credence Barebone struggled from the peat-covered ground. His nails dug into the muck as he clawed for purchase. He awkwardly worked to dispel dirt from his eyes, for he was unused to having a face. 

Credence could not remember the first few hours of his death. Perhaps the hazel tree under which he died had poisoned his soul with its milk. Perhaps a devil had simply made ill-use of his unmourned corpse. 

Yet when Credence woke he was no longer in this world, but in a realm of horror. Trees grew downward and beasts walked on their tongues. He had tried to scream, but instead a hiss had come out. Credence was thus confined to the Otherworld, where his jaw dragged on the ground and he traveled on all fours like a dog. Yet during Samhain, he inhabited his human form until the next dawn. The changing of season inspired a madness in the living and an assault on natural law from the dead.

He now looked down at his body. The skin glistened as if covered in albumen. His arms were blue from the cold earth but he could not feel. He tried to hoist himself onto his knees, only to find he had forgotten how to use the muscles in his legs. His thighs wobbled like a newborn lamb’s before he fell back to the dirt. After what felt like hours, he had regained strength enough to walk. He made for the grove of trees ahead, and the village beyond it to the west. He had once lived not far from that village, during life. His breath condensed in the grey autumn air. The sun began to illuminate the leaves so that their veined backs shone with color. 

Sunlight did not exist in the Otherworld the way it did here. Credence found himself standing still with his head back, enchanted. Suddenly, two whooping cackles stopped Credence where he stood. Then the forest went silent. Credence recognized the creature’s voice. He dropped to his hands and knees, and began to crawl. He saw a fern covered log up ahead through the bramble. Credence struggled between speed and silence, smothering his breath with his arm. Once he had nearly made it to the log, Credence realized he’d strayed far from his path. He could no longer see the small stream he had been following. 

He desperately tried to flatten himself against the earth. The open air chilled his exposed front, hyperaware of every unhidden inch. His legs were bent at an angle to hide his feet. Another primal whooping cut through the trees. Credence both felt and heard the thump of a larger body above him. A skeletal black hand curved around the fallen tree’s softwood. Its body loomed over him. He spied its dangling, too-long limbs. A scream tickled at the back of Credence’s throat. Yet Credence was to frightened to even move his hand to cover his mouth. The creature groaned and cackled, turning its oversized ears to the east and south. Credence could make out the underside of unblinking eyes, reflecting the light. He knew the beast. It was reviled even by the faeries for its gluttony. Credence could count each horrible toe on its clawed foot. 

He could see the fur moving with each unnatural breath. Credence thought it to be blind. Its nostrils twitched and it licked one paw-like hand where it seemed to have an open wound. It set down the hand again, this time close enough for its claw to graze the thin skin of Credence’s ear. The boy stopped breathing or moving as a nail made contact with his flesh. The creature jerked and Credence’s mouth shaped a sob. A branch snapped in the distance. The scent of some animal, more alive than Credence, caused its head to swivel. The creature leapt like a grasshopper over the log and took to the chase. Credence buried his face in the dead leaves until he could stop shaking. 

The sun waned low in the branches by the time Credence came across a clearing. There he found a hut of stone and thatched roof squatted amongst the trees. Credence could see a well, a pile of firewood, and a simple wagon outside the home. The kindle was still dry, free of fungus or rot - evidence of a recent caretaker. Credence stumbled to the entrance of the hut and attempted to use his voice. What came out was more noise than intelligible words. When no answer came, he lingered. Credence did not wish to be split in two with an axe for intruding, so he sat down along the wall. He pulled up his knees, ready to wait. Unfortunately, he did not anticipate how weary he would be from the journey. His bones felt unsturdy and loose under him. His muscles still strained to fully remember movement. He sat down beside the door, succumbing to the disorientation. Soon enough Credence had dozed off.

He awoke to the sight of a man. Credence stumbled into a seated position, trying to assess his surroundings. The stranger looked to be past his youth, with grey in his shortly trimmed beard and a weary look. He had the imposing stance of a nobleman in a workingman’s garb. The stranger, a woodsman, held the long hind feet of a rabbit over his shoulder. Traces of the animal’s blood smeared his arms and nails. The man eyed Credence without addressing him. He lay the rabbits on a nearby tree stump and picked up an iron rod. 

Before Credence could react, the man had shoved him against the door. The rod bit into his windpipe. Credence flailed to cup his pitifully cold genitals. “Not a word,” the woodsman’s voice brushed Credence’s ear - like the creature’s talon but warm. The woodsman pressed in. He still smelled of sweat from the hunt. 

“Not a word until I say so. That understood?” Credence nodded as best he could. His eyes began to water. The scent of the stranger was strong - of acrid innards and damp fur and river water. The man did not move to draw another weapon. Credence let his wrist go limp in the woodsman’s hold until at last he dropped the rod. 

“Perhaps yer not one of ‘em fair folk,” The man stepped back. “But why’re you sleeping at my door? And why does your skin got the look of moonglow?”

Credence gulped in the cold air and felt along his throat with both hands. “I am no fair folk,” he whispered. His eyes stung. He was not naive enough to be hurt by the woodsman’s actions. Every year that Credence had crossed through the Otherworld’s veil was a time of poor luck - in death as he had in life. The few villagers who did not recognize him avoided him upon appearance. Some, of an older age, feared him and accused him being a witch. In truth, the time of Samhain often found Credence caged or hung or run out of the village. Some years past he had wandered the hills alone until the next day dawned. Even with this knowledge, the boy suffered willingly in exchange for a fleeting taste of bread and wine on his tongue. 

“Three men attacked me,” Credence said to the stranger. He slouched back down. A gust of wind cut through the forest. It rattled leaves like bones in a jar. Credence continued, “I was traveling to visit my uncle in the village when they came upon me. They took my tunic.”

“These thieves, they’re made of smoke then?” asked the man with crossed his arms. “I never saw a soul during my hunt, all throughout these woods.”

“Please.” Credence wiped his nose on his bare arm. “If I could have a scrap of cloth to cover myself, I would go. Will you help me?” His hair had dried enough to curl around his ears and his lips began to feel less numb.

“And who asks for my cloth?”

“Credence,” he replied before thinking better of it.

“Percival,” the woodsman replied. Credence blinked in surprise. The man called Percival bent to retrieve his kill without looking at Credence. He walked past him to enter the hut. The door swung open then shut. Minutes passed before Percival reappeared in the doorway. He simply stood in place as if waiting for Credence to enter.

The boy scurried upright. Percival slammed the door back in place to cut off the dreadful wind. Once inside, Credence stared at Percival like one might a god. He found himself unable to articulate. Never had anyone accepted him with such blind faith. Credence refrained from moving as his eyes adjusted to the darkness of the indoors. He could see Percival had moved to kneel by the hearth, but discerned few other objects. Credence was in a sea of black except for the cracks of light along the doorframe. Credence willed the fears away. He instead focused on the dry warmth of packed earth beneath his feet and the slowly forming, sturdy outlines of furniture.

Rushlights flickered to life around Credence. Percival watched as he cupped a flame with a curious expression. Credence forced himself to forget his own nudity long enough to discern the home he found himself in. He saw a mattress-topped bed, a water barrel, a table with a chair, and Percival’s crossbow hanging on the wall. The beaten metal of the weapon shimmered in the rushlights feeble glow. Percival’s features seemed ever-shifting with the rushlight shadows as he approached.

“Ye’ll find bread on the table,” he said. Percival watched Credence a moment before taking down a rag from the peg behind him. The older man gave no hint of modesty as he removed both his tunic and trousers. Credence had little time to turn away. Percival dipped the cloth in a jug of water. He dragged it over his neck and across his chest. 

Credence stared, unwilling to acknowledge if his body was reacting. He had the mad thought of offering to clean Percival’s body. He imagined getting on all fours to wash this stranger’s feet. He imagined running the cloth up each leg. Trembling hands up muscular thighs. A man of Percival’s strength could so easily trap Credence, bend him over the table with his face pressed to the wood. 

Credence could imagine Percival leaning his groin against the the swell of Credence’s backside and taking advantage of the neerdowell in his home. He could push down until the friction of Credence’s soft skin caused him to become hard. The boy was shocked at himself. Yet his eyes still lingered on Percival’s manhood nestled between his thighs. Credence pictured himself kneeling in front of Percival performing favors reserved for underfed prostitutes and mistresses. He startled to attention when Percival spoke. 

“Take it,” Percival motioned towards the tunic he had just removed. “And dem pants there in the box, the one wit the owl carved in.”

The boy found them without trouble. Percival’s unwashed shirt hung loose across Credence’s chest. The hosen surprised him by how small they were. The fabric did not quite cover Credence’s ankles. These trousers did not match the other cloth, a much finer weave to it. Percival’s own pants were weathered hide and laced in front. Perhaps, Credence thought, these had been made for someone younger, someone Percival had known.

Credence finished dressing to notice Percival standing in the middle of the room. He turned to avoid staring and risk disrespect. Yet Percival’s eyes followed Credence’s movements. Under his watch, Credence knew to reach over and tear a piece of bread. He found the loaf atop a clay plate. The boy’s stomach rumbled at the mere sight of it. He pressed the bread to his lips, before he slipped the food onto his tongue. Credence let it sit. Savoring the texture. The solid texture of stuff in his belly immediately lessened his lingering pains. Likewise, tension eased out of Percival’s shoulders.

“Thank you,” Credence said around the mouthful.

Percival rubbed his beard in thought. “Will the clothes be warm enough for ye then?” To which Credence nodded. “Good. Make ready to leave for the village.”

He packed while Credence watched. Percival handed several bundled hares to Credence in order to make himself useful. Credence attempted to drape the animals over his shoulder as he’d seen Percival do. Their matted fur tickled and slipped off balance. Percival already had his crossbow hanging from his belt and another bundle of hares. He paused at the doorway to face Credence. He pulled the boy’s boney wrist without warning. The wind blew past them, through the opening and around Credence’s ears. Percival leaned over and examined the arm as if searching for something. He roughly pushed up the sleeve to feel along the skin. Credence prayed to fate he would not be discovered. He knew the skin of his former body appeared odd at times. Numerous villages had accused it of having an unnatural lustre or hue. At last Percival stepped away. 

“Walk in front’a me,” he gestured with a walking staff.

Their journey to the village was not a terribly long one. Percival stayed close behind with an eye on Credence’s movements. They reached the end of the gnarled yew forest by early evening. Credence could already make out massive pillars of flame above the trees. Tall, blazing spires of timbre and animal remains sent drifts of smoke towards the travelers. Credence had always thought the festival to be magical - no matter his plight. He listened for the crack of the bonfire and the singing that animated the village. Credence stopped to admire the lively human display ahead. He turned to Percival. Fire and moonlight warped the woodsman’s features into those of a faerie king. Percival looked at Credence with similar fascination. He kept a furrowed brow, but misgivings had been replaced by interest.

The two men continued with arms weighed down. Their muscles strained with the animal’s dead mass, heavy with skin and fur and bones. They crossed the outer ring of buildings and into the festivities beyond. The traditional celebrations of Samhain greeted Credence in glimpses along the road. He could see no faces, only masks and hoods. The construction was so poor that no one would ever mistake them for a ghoul. The street was lit from above by the tall bonfires of the outer circle. Below the illuminated turnip lanterns gaped from doorsteps. Food smells from feasts danced with the smoke hazing out the stars. The festivities’ odd atmosphere, caught between revelling and reverence, affected Credence. 

Percival served as an unexpected source of protection. Credence kept his head bowed, yet walked with newfound bravery. Villagers who might have flayed him alive in the past allowed he and Percival breadth to walk. He succeeded in ignoring their presence until his eye caught the figure of a small boy. White and black charcoal covered his skin, so that Credence could only make out his eyes. It seemed inhuman. Credence hoped it had been a ghost, and better yet a ghost with no quarrel against him. 

Percival led them to a building that reeked of slaughter. The floor and walls bore a fresh dust of wood shavings. The butcher of the residence nodded in acknowledgement of Percival without halting his work. Credence dutifully handed over his pair of long-limbed hares. Their dead, reddish-brown eyes glinted at Credence as they twirled in mid-air. The merchant unceremoniously grabbed the lot with his bare hands. He then groped the small bodies to discern how much meat and fat covered the bones. Percival and Credence stood back in silence. The butcher appeared pleased with the results of his inspection.

“Best I seen this season,” he stated matter of factly. Percival’s cheek twitched in satisfaction for the first time since Credence had known him. The merchant-butcher went about hanging them on hooks. He was weak-chinned with rich auburn hair, head bent down. When he spoke, Credence could see where he had lost teeth. He brushed his hands on his apron before searching his pockets for a copper key. The butcher twirled it like a cat with a mouse before unlocking a chest of coin. He counted out six gold shillings and 10 silver penings for their effort, sliding them into a pile along his counter. Samhain always found buyers in a more generous mood, whether from fear of spirits or fear of ill luck.

Percival scraped the payment into his leather pouch without hesitation and handed it to Credence. “I wish to speak matters ‘a business,” Percival said, “The boy can wait outside.” 

Credence clutched the pouch rigid with coin to his chest. He forced himself to pause at the door, unsure if he was truly meant to watch over the earnings, but no one spared him a glance. Credence therefore walked out into the dusklight. In the distance, a procession of village men marched through the center road with their flaming lanterns aloft. The white mare lead the ghastly parade.

The white mare wore an elongated false-face, topped with dingy straw hair creating the illusion of a fabled stallion's head. Credence inched closer to the shadow of the buildings. Perhaps his face would not be so recognizable in the dim evening light. He was focused on watching the crowd when three children approached. They mingled to form a circle around him with upturned faces. One wore a hood made of a badger’s skinned head. Another wore a goat skull still stained despite scrubbing. The last wore a sack cut above his mouth. The lower half of his face was blackened with coal. A child’s voice eked out from behind the mask:

Come, she sings,  
fly on your gossamer wings;  
in my lair I will keep close,  
once free, now caught in my strings.

I have thrown  
my glittering net that I hast sewn;  
See the feed I thrive on  
and you too can share Spider’s throne.

 

The goat skull and badger skin grinned humorless, waving their hands in the air to the beat of the rhyme. Credence clutched the purse tighter. The singing stopped abruptly and all three held out their open palms. All six hands were sticky, unwashed from dinner. Three pairs of eyes stared from behind their masks at the pouch of coin nestled in Credence’s arms. The shortest in height lost his patience and said, “He got all the words right. Where is our ration?”

“It’s not mine to give,” Credence stepped back onto the groaning planks of the doorstep. The badger with tufts of red picked a stone and threw it, loose animal skin flapping around his cheeks. Credence ducked but not before the stone knocked hard against the bone of his shoulder. His hands remained around the coin despite the blooming pain.

“A witch’s man, a witch’s man,” their shrill voices accused before running off. Credence could see several other folk turning to catch sight of the commotion. One older man stopped to stare. The longer the man’s stare went unbroken, the more anxious Credence became. Even in the dying light, this man’s age was apparent. Eyes hooded under lumps of skin, veined cheeks. He was the age of a man who would have been in the village when Ma was alive. The elder leaned against a large stick. His misted eyes met Credence’s. His mouth moved as if speaking. Credence could not hear above his own pulse.

The man was not walking towards him, Credence told himself. It was a trick of the light. The distance between them was shrinking, no matter what the boy did. An old enemy of his mother’s? A man fearful of spirits and fae? The elder would surely cracked his skull with the walking stick. Credence’s body would return to the bog. His spirit would be called to the Otherworld without further reprieve. Fear locked Credence’s limbs as the man continued to advance, limbing slowly. He looked for a crevice in which to hide, but saw none.

Fury distorted the elder’s expression. Spit gathered in white clumps at the corners of his lips, spraying when he spoke, “I should see you hung, devil. I will do it with my own hands. Too long have your kin plagued this village and I will not be haunted by your spirits!”

“I mean no harm, the Barebones are not my kin.”

“Be gone,” he screeched. He unclasped a vile he’d pulled from a pocket and lunged towards Credence. Suddenly his left knee buckled mid-run. The glass broke in his hand and cut deep. When he raised his face from the dirt, his eyes had turned feral. Credence ran to the merchant’s door to pound desperately for entry. Over and over his fist struck it, peering over his shoulder. The elder was holding a bloodied hand to his shirt. Other villagers began to turn and stare. 

A second later, the door swung open. Percival stepped between the other man and the boy with an axe at ready. “I will strike if you touch my coin or the boy holdin’ it.”

“These are matters you do not understand, woodsman!” said the crippled man. He eyed Credence with undiminished fury. 

“Did I not warn ye?!” Percival shouted in return. He held an axe in one hand at the ready. “Did I not?!” The villager cowered back like a beaten dog. He hid his face from the crowd before limbing away in defeat. Percival let the axe fall to his side. The woodsman wiped his brow and beard, but did not speak yet. He opened his palm for the pouch. Only after Percival had the pouch safely stored did he ask about the boy. Credence silently begged Percival to turn a blind eye to the town’s distrust. It was sure to be mounting with each passing moment. Yet instead of a dismissal, Percival met his eyes.

“I intend to find refreshment before my trip home. There’ll be a house with a trough outside, if yer not occupied with your uncle.”

“My uncle enjoys a night alone,” Credence quickly replied.

“Tis a shame,” said Percival. Yet the lines about his forehead and eyes softened. “One should not drink alone on Samhain’s night.”

 

___

 

Several drinks later, Credence left a villager’s home alongside Percival. The woodsman had traded the woman of the house two coins. The lady, Fillipa offered as much ale as Percival liked. Her mother served the woodsman vegetable pottage, black pudding, and acorn speckled bread. Percival allowed Credence morsels as if they were old friends. No one else approached them for the rest of the evening. The pair bid the lady good health on the eve of winter. They swayed towards the village center with Percival’s hand on Credence’s back. The shape of it was felt through the worn shirt's fabric. Credence stopped when Percival lingered beside the public well. The ground was littered with turnips and small bones of a previous sacrifice.

“Allow me to walk ye to your uncle’s,” Percival implored as they took in the cold night. His hand slipped to Credence’s elbow. 

“You have already shown me too much kindness,” replied Credence. 

“Tis only the right thing to do,” Percival furrowed his brow. “You’ve no way of knowin’ what could happen to a lone traveler on Samhain when the sun’s down.”

“There is no need.” Credence spoke to the ground.

“Do you refuse my offer then?” 

“I only said there is no need.”

“Then answer me simple and plain where your uncle lives, so that I can call on him tomorrow. I would want to know that you were not taken.”

Credence stayed silent. Bonfires popped in the distance, sparks rising. The boy could smell the drink on his own mouth. He found he did not like it. Percival’s eyes were narrowed, stung by suspicion similar to when the woodsman had first come upon Credence. The boy tried to think how he could stop his good fortune from unraveling all at once.

“My uncle...he is ill. I don’t wish to wake him. We cannot wake him when he is resting. Perhaps I will go to another house open to the public.”

“Stay with me ‘til sunrise,” Percival surprised him. “It will be safer travel then. If yer uncle is not expecting you?”

“He is not.”

Percival was mollified. He readjusted the crossbow at his belt and returned his hand to Credence’s back as his guide. The woodsman and the cursed boy made to return to the forest. Many of the fires had begun to dim and cloud cover obscured the moon. Credence knew Samhain to be the most dangerous time for mortals. Even a human-appearing “other” spirit such as himself might be preyed upon by a bucca. Ghosts resented spirits who masqueraded as the living. They lingered like white fog in the valleys and trees. Their motionless faces hovered outside windows like a smudge on the glass. 

Any number could have pulled Credence by the ankles to his death. Yet Credence had forgotten to be afraid while walking beside Percival - possibly for the first time in his life. Percival’s hand would sometimes drift towards Credence’s. Their knuckles brushed in the near-blackness. No one would be able to see them, thought Credence. The subtle heat of Percival’s front at his back urged Credence’s pace to the hut.

Percival lead Credence inside as a guest and no longer a mistrusted beggar. Credence still felt the larger man’s presence behind him, but there was no speaking. Credence could feel the moisture of breath, hungry at his neck before it was gone. Percival moved around the room to re-light the reeds with flint tucked in his pocket. He then prepared a fire in the back of the room. Credence watched with his back against the wall, huddled in the borrowed clothes. 

Percival lifted his only chair to place it by the fire. He motioned for Credence to be seated. Credence shook his head as if he had forgotten the art of speech. The woodsman sat down in his stead. His dark stare never left Credence. Percival waited with his hands clasped and arms rested on his knees. At last he spoke, voice low like the light. 

“My sister, she died givin’ birth to a son, my nephew. Oisin. I lost him to the river.”

“Lost?”

“Aye, lost. Never found out what happened,” Percival pursed his lips. “Your uncle will be glad to see ye, Credence. That’s all I mean to say.”

“I’ve no blood relations.” Credence edged towards the other man. He should not divulge anymore than he was forced too, yet his tongue moved of its own accord. “I was orphaned when my mother took me in. I understand what it is to be lonely.” By the time Credence finished, he was seated at the edge of the woodsman’s bed. 

Percival stood from his chair. He took the few steps to Credence and leaned over him. The woodsman’s face made as if inspecting the side of his neck. Suddenly Credence felt lips sucking his skin. They were wet, warm. A second later they were gone.

“I’m sorry,” Percival apologized. “I thought I saw a mark. I only looked. Trick’a the light.” Yet instead of moving back to the chair, Percival kneeled at Credence’s feet.

“I enjoyed it.” Credence blurted. 

“Truly?” Percival spoke as a man ready to believe any justification offered him; a shipwrecked sailor flailing for a plank.

“Yes.”

He sat on the thin mattress beside Credence. Percival dipped his head again and this time kissed him firmly under the jaw. Credence bit his lip, clenching the wool blanket. Its fibers itched his palms. 

Percival then smoothed his palm over the fabric of Credence’s borrowed shirt until it slid off the boy’s shoulder. He stared at Credence’s moon-white glow before touching. His clumsy fingers began to stroke the bare skin. He traced along red spots and freckles, his collarbone and curve of upper arm. Credence’s head tipped back against the wall as he squirmed. He felt Percival’s beard, then the cool tip of his nose as the older man burrowed his face into Credence’s neck. He mouthed the smooth skin and breathed him in. 

His arousal bumped Credence’s inner thigh. He reached between Credence’s legs and kissed roughly when he found the boy hard as well. Credence met Percival’s lips in kind, groaning. He rutted upwards without thought. In turn, Percival slowed him with his mouth.

Credence looked down to see Percival’s cock bared. He was stroking himself against Credence. The boy moaned only to be cut off by Percival’s mouth. He could still feel the motion of Percival’s fist. Credence arched off the mattress to give him more friction. Percival’s breathing grew faster and Credence knew his release would come soon. The boy struggled to watch with fascination. He was caught off guard by what he felt at the sight. He moaned, hands now grasping at Percival’s hair. He longed for Percival's release. In that moment, Credence wanted it with a fervor that overtook him. Percival’s hips stuttered, forehead against Credence’s. He came with one hand squeezing Credence’s hip and the other pumping himself.

As soon as Percival finished, Credence noted the tension. The woodsman did not look at Credence, but took his hand. He guided the boy to sit atop the bed, thigh to thigh. Percival held both Credence’s hands now and brought them to his lips. His mouth brushed skin but did not dare taste. He gripped the boy’s hands tightly with eyes closed. Percival then let go to stroke Credence’s cool cheek, large palm and fingers holding his face. His thumb caught Credence’s lower lip but he did not dip inside. He continued to pet Credence in this way until he slipped into sleep. Credence wanted to follow, but couldn’t. At the thought of Percival thinking him a monster, Credence wrapped his arms around himself. His stomach clenched in despair. He had been gifted a human body but was still a cursed man. He would see the Dredge Woman.

____

 

Credence dissolved himself in shadow. As he walked, he observed: country games, a harvest meal, and empty spaces at the end of tables. Credence felt the first inkling of uncertainty as he crossed over the light of the bonfires. He kept his eyes trained to the ground. He made sure to follow the unseasonable blooms of primrose sprouting in clusters along the rolling hills. The petals winked in the darkness over each horizon, beckoning him forward. Credence continued so until he reached what others from the village might mistaken for a large fox den. The dirt path cut into the raised earth, a mound with an archway of bent trees. Ferns and primroses carpeted the ground surrounding him as if it were spring. Credence knelt as if in prayer and began to sing. 

His voice shook. The unpracticed sound was jarring in the quiet wood. He only required the three simple lines. Upon their utterance, Credence waited until an arm reached from the darkness. It urged Credence to follow it inside the den. Credence had seen the Dredge Woman, but only in the shadow of the Otherworld. She was short enough to reach the tender backs’ of Credence’s knees. Her head and hands were too small even for her proportions. Those in the village feared her. They believed her so-called deformity to be a sign of the devil. They did not understand her body or its powers. At times she crawled instead of walking upright, and at times she took her meals off of the ground. Mothers in the village often told disobedient children that she could sprout many more limbs, then crawl up walls and through windows to prey on children while they slept. 

The aroma of bitter herbs filled Credence’s nose as he crouched to enter. Once inside, he was met with more candles than he had ever seen in one dwelling. The flames bobbed in the recesses of curved dirt and stone. Vein-like roots protruded through the ceiling. Some brushed the top of Credence’s head. All of the Dredge Woman’s furniture was crouched low to the floor. The cupboards were squat yet roomy enough to hold every part of an animal.

The Dredge Woman stood before Credence now. Her skin was stretched tight across her face, as if borrowed from a much smaller head. Her eyes were utterly black and too round in shape, like marbles. In them Credence could see the room reflected back in reverse. He tried to mask his reactions. She licked her fingers in excitement as if he hadn’t gaped. “Speak, tell me,” she tittered like a bird, “Why has an undead requested an audience in my court?”

“I wish to remain in my body past Samhain.” Credence realized he had wrapped a fist in Percival’s stained shirt. 

“Your desires defy the order of this world itself.” Her hand petted the skulls which hung from a perverse chime along the wall. “I accept the task with an eager heart.” She smiled like a knife.

“Truly?” Credence’s hands flitted to his mouth in delight. His mind dove into fantasies of life without the curse. He would no longer roam the Otherworld, but in the sunlight. He would be free from those things that haunted the other plane. Perhaps he could see Percival often, as often as he liked. Credence embraced the fantasy. He cradled the possibilities selfishly like a child.

“If I cannot do as you wish, then I shall keep your body as payment. Is this a pact?”

“Yes.”

“Allow me a moment to work.” The black eyes swiveled. She climbed up one ladder to scramble onto another. Her strange, agile movement almost made the rumors seem real. Credence watched her gather items before stuffing them in her apron and her inside her cheeks. She uncovered a fish eye, a handful of an infant’s bloodied teeth, a bottle of wine, and the head of a pygmy shrew. She finished by lapping up goat’s milk. The Dredge Woman approached the bowl at the center of the room surrounded by stones. She emptied her mouth so that Credence could hear the contents hitting the stone. He stared as the seat of the bowl began to glow a molten orange. The Dredge Woman crushed all manner of plants in her palms before clapping them together over the brew. The smoke stung but the witch’s black spider eyes did not blink.

And with that, she handed him a cup of frothy liquid. Credence held the drink with both hands and forced it to his lips despite the smell. He tipped it back until he could swallow no more. At last the boy lowered the cup and took stock. It was then that he realized that his mouth was filled with the mingling tastes of sweet apples and warm blackberries. He could sense every trickle of warmth moving down his throat and even into his stomach. Credence’s eyes widened. His skin took on a rosey undertone, starting from the toes upwards. He felt a mad laugh bubble inside him. 

“A shame I cannot make use of that body, dear boy,” the witch grinned over the bowl. She whispered another incantation and swept away the remaining contents. When she looked up, Credence had not moved. “Take this cloak,” she conjured up a burgundy hooded garment seemingly from nowhere. “Use this to hide your face. Go, and beware the fair folk for they are restless under this moon. Reach the village while the people still walk about!”

“I am eternally grateful,” Credence grinned so large he could cry from the strain on his cheeks. His hands shook too much, so that he had to take a moment before wrapping the cloak around himself. He knelt before the Dredge Woman, then rushed outside. 

___

 

Back in the night air, Credence spun, head tilted upwards to see the planets. He giggled when his feet tripped on a root. Credence picked himself up and began to run in the direction of the village. He swore the wind had never been so crisp, or the sky ever so lush with galaxies. He felt dizzy if he settled on thoughts of his new life for too long. It was as if every humor in his body had aligned in perfect harmony. Credence couldn’t recall feeling so in command of his own being. What an incredible, unbelievable gift. He soon spotted the glow of the village bonfires, red-wisped sentries posted along the perimeter. 

Children and men still congregated around the buildings. The fires lit the bottom half of their faces so that they appeared to float the dark. Apples swam in dark pools that reflected the flame. In his half-life, Credence may have been frightened at the sight of a large gathering, but no longer. Credence followed the sound of laughter to the doorfront of the baker’s home. He had sold mead to other villagers on Samhains past, but - unbeknownst to Credence - this year’s supply had fallen. Now the baker passed cups of honeyed water with a turned back. 

Credence walked barefoot, single-minded out of the night and into the bonfire’s heat. One of the men with the baker turned when Credence’s shadow cast across the ground. Credence met his stare, a manic smile at his lips. Perhaps they had a feast to share. The boy thought he might glean information regardless. Maybe Credence would even taste some mead for the first time. The idea delighted him. As he approached the men, their once boisterous voices lowered. The man who had locked eyes with Credence sneered. 

“Is there enough drink to share?” Credence asked.

“None for your likes.” He punctuated the words by spitting at Credence’s feet. His eyes were pinched with regret and anger. As the wealthiest of the group, the man wore thick wool around his shoulders. He had wrapped the shawl to protect his nose from winter’s arrival.

Credence dismissed the baker’s ill-will in hopes of finding the lady from before. If one of the houses in the village were offering mead, it must be a fairly large one. Credence wandered with his hood covering his head. He looked for drunk villagers or well-lit windows or a sign bearing a lamb. He strained to peer above the doorways without coming too near. When Credence had walked across the entire village, retraced his steps to spot the illusive sign. Around the corners of a great house, there was at last the image of a lamb swinging overhead. 

He rushed forward as his cloak fell back from his ears. Inside, the crowd could be heard at a low murmur. Credence then knocked twice on the door to be greeted by a young girl, barely on the cusp of womanhood. 

“Have ye come for a drink?” she glanced behind him, oddly skittish in manner.

“I have, - if it is no hardship.”

“No sir, none. Please share in our harvest.”

He took a ladle of drink from a woman with the same round chin as the young girl. Credence drank like a man out of a desert in his eagerness to finally taste something new. It filled his belly and lightened his head. Cheeks bright, Credence tapped a song’s old rhythm against his cup. He meandered where his feet guided him. The boy hummed in delight and soon found himself back out into the night. He leaned against the boards of the house to look up at the heavens. Despite the crowd indoors, the air around him had gone quiet - so much so that Credence could not hear the sound of his own breath. A sense of peace warmed him from his toes to his mouth, and Credence rested.

The next morn he opened his eyes to black.

**Author's Note:**

> Comments mean a great deal!


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